


Brave Punishments

by DaughterofProspero



Category: Much Ado About Nothing - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Anger, Angst, Brothers, Coffee, Forgiveness, POV Third Person, Post-Canon, Prison, Punishment, Some Humor, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterofProspero/pseuds/DaughterofProspero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Think not on him till to-morrow:<br/>I'll devise thee brave punishments for him."</p><p>The weddings and festivities are over. Now it's back to business and the ever-present question: What to do with Don John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“John.”

A thin strip of light widens as the door to the cell opens on a backlit figure leaning casually in the doorway. The almost too ominous entrance a clear harbinger of punishments to come.

John shifts slightly in his seat, the rigid metal has no give to it causing him minor discomfort. Not like he’d say anything about it. He is not the type to voice complaints. Even if he were, it wouldn’t make a difference – he is not here to be given comfort. Though really, when is he ever?

“John, John, John,” Signior Benedick lazily slides off the doorframe and begins to circle the chair in which John is seated.

“What to do with you?” It’s evident he relishes the opportunity to let his theatrical flair go uninhibited – all the better that his audience is quite literally held captive. John has to fight the overpowering urge to roll his eyes at the clichés being unceremoniously forced upon him. He sits tight and waits out the performance.

“I’ve thought long and hard, John. Long and hard” John could have sworn there was a split second of Benedick congratulating himself on a menacing statement and blatant innuendo rolled into one flawless delivery before continuing.

“So many possibilities, John. So difficult to choose. But finally: it hit me.”

John is still

“I know I said that _I’d_ devise punishments for you but, y’know, that’s not quite true. You’re used to lies, though, aren’t you John?” Benedick claps one hand firmly on John’s shoulder and it takes most of his self-control to not start at the abrupt physical contact.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but it will not in fact be yours truly dishing you your just desserts. No, it took me a while, I’ll admit, but there is someone even more fitting for the job than I.” The melodramatic soldier with a hankering for banter leans in to his prisoner.

“Are you ready, John?”

The bastard Prince gives no answer. Not that it matters.

“Come on in!” At the unofficial summons another backlit figure appears in the doorway. Shorter, rounder, angrier. There are no theatrical embellishments to this entrance. Only an icy unbroken gaze and the airy scratch of dress fabric against the corner of the small tinny table.

“So I’ll leave you to it then,” is Benedick’s farewell as he makes his hasty exit.

“Signior Benedick?” Eye contact still unbroken, the woman sitting opposite John causes Benedick to pop his head back into the room.

“That’s me!”

“Don’t let me go over.”

“Of course not. 10 minutes. Max.”

“Thank you.” And with that, the door is shut and John is left with Beatrice.


	2. Chapter 2

Don Pedro jerks to attention when Beatrice comes back into the common room, causing one of the cups of coffee he’s holding to splash onto his leg. Wincing, he quickly dabs at it, significantly more alert.

Under normal circumstances Beatrice probably would have offered him a makeshift napkin of some sort but today she doesn’t even notice the blunder. With eyes only for the old piece of upholstery across the room she walks briskly to it and slumps into the worn cushioning.

Silence once again entombs the room – not even a half-hearted quip from Benedick to be heard. He simply sits awkwardly beside his wife; unsure of how to proceed.

With some effort, Don Pedro manages to get himself to his feet without using his hands (or spilling any more of the coffee). Taking a sip from the cup in his right hand he moves to Beatrice’s side of the room, outstretching his left when he reaches her.

“Coffee?” He offers

Beatrice’s head comes up to accept the drink; making eye contact with him for the first time in well over an hour.

“Thanks”

Don Pedro leans back on his heels, sharing a quick glance of uncertainty with Benedick. Quiet resumes it’s hold save for the sloshing of dogberry-home-brewed coffee in cups.

Less than a day ago, the household of Leonato had been the definition of merriment. Two marriages and a grand reception filled with feasting and fun to follow had been a perfect end to the preceding weeks of havoc and heartbreak. But today it was back to business. Don John could no longer be ignored.

A half-brother silent and sullen as a mourner; grieving for what he never was and never had. When he crossed Pedro in battle and lost there had been a sentence. He had lived as a common prisoner for almost a month when he was rescued by the same brother he had betrayed. Perhaps winning made him forgiving but Pedro was willing to attempt reform once more – still under a watchful eye. But John was stubborn. His lot in life was to be outshined so he banished himself to the shadows and there he stayed, starting rumours, hatching plans, causing mayhem. Twice he had betrayed his brother and his trust.

So what to do? Caught up in the revelry, Benedick had light-heartedly taken it upon himself to create the punishment for the bitter Prince. Late into the night he spoke with his new wife upon numerous subjects but finally they came to the matter of Don John. Physical violence was out. A run-of-the-mill sentence to some penal colony was ludicrous. How to admonish a seemingly shameless man?

Brainstorming for a good chunk of the early morning yielded a deceptively straightforward solution: Make him feel remorse.

Who and how proved a similarly difficult query. Dogberry with his well-meaning inanity? Don Pedro to deliver yet another lecture that lost meaning long ago? Benedick with threats behind his witty jests?

Or Beatrice. With a tongue sharper than most rapiers and enough passion to level battalions with a single glare, she would force him to face the consequences of his actions using the brute force of her words alone.

One last chance. One last chance at atonement for the bastard brother that would not apologize for whom he had become. Beatrice was all the pain and he had caused in his brief stay in Messina, combined with righteous anger and the perfect vocabulary to put him in the shoes of his victims. She allowed herself 10 minutes alone with him. Partly because she was proud of her abilities, and partly because any more and she feared the urge to slowly castrate him on the edge of the metal table would overpower her.

But if that wasn’t enough. If he still would not say he’s sorry. There was one more thing that could be done.

And by the look on Beatrice’s face it would seem that that was exactly to what the situation had come.


	3. Chapter 3

They sit, for a time in appropriate discomfort. The room is not a hospitable one and neither party is the slightest bit interested in changing that. Dim lighting from the ceiling casts shadows that illuminate the sharp angles and pasty planes of John’s face. A rogue strand of hair hovers directly above his right temple, irritating the skin there but he disregards it as he disregards the momentary flash of anxious heat that floods his chest upon recognizing the woman come to interrogate him. He swallows the panic, pulls his thoughts away from the itching at his brow, and sharpens his gaze. What is there to say?

Beatrice is not so still. Clearly keeping herself under strict control not to leap across the table and pummel the man who’d nearly destroyed the life of her dearest friend and plunged her loving household into a cesspool of malicious intrigue. Her jaw clenches and unclenches in time to the fists she is repetitively balling up and relaxing. 10 minutes. Less now.

“Comfortable?” She spits.

No answer.

“I hope not.”

A blink in response and likely only out of necessity.

“I hate you. I know you don’t want my pity so rest easy, I’m not giving you any.” Finally breaking the stale staring game Beatrice glances down at the table, bracing her hands against it’s edge. With a deep inhale she closes her eyes and continues. John remains still.

“I just fucking _hate_ you. I hate your wallowing, and your delusions, and how people keep wanting to give you send chances. You are worth less than the dirt that covers my cousin’s coffin, you are less than the spit from your lackey’s mouths, if I were your brother you’d have been executed yesterday.”

Beatrice meets his insistently bored gaze again, letting a flush of red rise to her face as her anger boils over her half-hearted barriers of self-control.

“You think being a bastard makes you special; you think that you’re the underdog we’ll root for once you win your own moronic games. Make your brother and his buddy look stupid – boy that’ll learn them their lesson, they’ll respect you then. You think you’re so damn clever with your planning and your bullshit philosophies on why the world is a terrible place. I would’ve felt sorry for you if you’d even _tried_ to be a good person but apparently from day one you were determined to not just be born into bastard-dom but to _earn_ the title! No one could really blame you because it wasn’t your fault you were born! Fuck the aristocracy and their hypocritical morals, right? You’ll show them, you’ll be what they call you – that’ll teach them – ‘my God what a monster we have created!’ They scream ‘how could we have been so cruel’ and then they’ll lick your boots and you’ll forgive them so it is written so it shall be amen.” John casts his eyes downward, maintaining his blank composure. Beatrice has violently pushed her chair back and propelled herself to a standing position, her volume climbing.

“Fuck. You.

Don’t act like no one’s thrown you life lines – your brother took you back, my uncle personally welcomed you, we _all_ welcomed you and you still insisted on being the villain in your own little made-up story.

Newsflash you absolute piece of shit: Your actions have consequences bigger than your massive intellect can comprehend – shocking I know! You didn’t even manage to keep your master plan confidential; you were found out by the most incompetent squad of policeman ever to grace the face of the earth in less than a day. And once that happened you _ran_. You shameless, pisswitted, _coward_ ; you _ran_.” A rebellious tear drifts down her cheek and more threaten to follow.

A girl is _dead_ because of you, an _innocent_ is _dead_ because of you, a _better person_ than you could _ever_ conceive of being is _dead_ because you thought you knew it all.

You don’t get to play God because you think he owes you. It can’t be easy hearing you’re second best, or having your inadequacy shoved in your face but if that’s your excuse for joining a goddamn rebellion, _being forgiven_ and then destroying multiple families it’s time to remove your nihilistic head from the endless depths of the pity-party in your ass and face the music!”

Beatrice has powered admirably through the sob that is valiantly trying to choke her as her accusations crescendo, but now she is spent. Fighting to keep her breathing even she waits for Don John to turn his gaze back to her. After 15 seconds of glaring expectantly at the top of his head, she whirls around and strides forcefully out of and away from the cell, nearly denting the door in her fury.

There are still 7 minutes and 26 seconds left before Benedick is to retrieve her when she enters the common room with a raw throat and a useless voice.


	4. Chapter 4

“Nothing?” Don Pedro asks with some trepidation.

“Nothing,” is the tired reply. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Benedick is quick to try and halt any signs of Beatrice beating herself up. Pedro looks, disheartened, into the brown sludge at the bottom of his cup. In retrospect, Beatrice may not have been the best choice, at least, not so soon after…well everything. They could hear her screaming from behind two closed doors and down a hallway. More than anything it was empty-chair (or rather, “full-chair” therapy) for her as opposed to a punishment for John. Pedro looks to Benedick, his mouth twisting in thought.

“Should we send her in?”

“Do it.”


	5. Chapter 5

Since Beatrice’s exit, John hasn’t raised his eyes – or, for that matter his expectations as to what may or may not be coming next. He tells himself Beatrice was a surprise, but ultimately of no concern. Jarring? Yes. Loud? a resounding yes. He tells himself Beatrice is simply another in a long line of people who believe they have the right to change him…Though never let it be said that she doesn’t use her words well. He is used to verbal lashings but she is practiced at cutting deep.

John hears the door open again, debating whether or not it is worth the effort to raise his eyes. His body makes the choice for him as soon as the guest speaks.

“Hello, your highness,” says Hero. Neat and composed, she might as well be greeting him as they pass each other on a stroll through a garden.

Try as he might to conceal it, the look on John’s face is that of a man desperately trying hide the fact that he’s just had a hernia. If it were only the voice he would’ve flinched a little, then dismissed it as a trick: Some strange ventriloquism meant to illicit fear, maybe. But this is most definitely the daughter of Leonato, back from the dead, mere feet away from him.

“I’m not a ghost.”

John doesn’t believe in ghosts but the statement is embarrassingly reassuring.

“We tricked you.”

Evidently.

“I almost died. Because of you.”

John’s uncharacteristically wide eyes are still glued to Hero. While just as graceful as ever she appears to wilt under the somber circumstances. It may just be the dim lights. Or it may be that her life was nearly torn to pieces. At his hands. She looks upon him – unnerving in and of itself –with unexpected weariness, as though his grudges were hers to bear.

“I wish you would say something. We’ve never spoken.”

This is not a wish John is prepared to grant at the current juncture. She really is unsettling.

“I want to understand.” Her earnestness does not aid John’s still being somewhat disoriented.

“Why do you hurt?”

The slightest whiff of sympathy makes John nauseous. Over the years, he’s had to develop a gag-reflex of iron against all the peripheral glances shot his way, and condescending strangers. Right now, he should be sardonically searching for a wastebasket…but with some alarm he realizes this is not sympathy. Of all things, from all people…this is _empathy_. The realization twists his intestines into knots.

Desperately working to unknot his innards, he distracts himself with unpacking her question. Why does he hurt? Other people? Or…why does he feel pain? What’s she even asking?

“What do you mean?” John instantly regrets the inquiry. Thus far he has been silent. He tells himself Beatrice must have thrown him off. His voice is rough, out of practice. He takes a second to concentrate on not clearing his throat – no one’s going to get anymore noise out of him. Hero very subtly raises her pale eyebrows.

“Do you like hurting people?” The naivety of the question is astounding, and brings John back to his senses somewhat. He rolls his eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, please. You wouldn’t do it at my grave, don’t do it now.” Seems her cousin has been rubbing off on her. An edge more fine than that of Beatrice’s blunt delivery grounds Hero’s demand. The obvious retort is “because you’re not dead” but John is dedicated to not wasting his breath.

“Are you going to answer my question?” She asks it kindly.

John says nothing – annoyingly it’s a response.

“You don’t have to now. But I would like to hear from you. In the future. I’d like to think you wouldn’t hate me so much if you knew me.” A slight smile in her words. “I have something to say to you, John.” No title, they might as well start sharing secrets and braiding each other’s hair. Hero moves and with the elegance of a swan seats herself across from the prisoner Prince.

“I know it’s awful having to please everyone, be what they want you to be. Even worse when people don’t believe you.”  She pauses a moment, sinking into a memory – John has a pretty good idea which one. “It makes me angry sometimes, but I have trouble staying mad. I don’t know how you’re managed it for so long. I know our positions aren’t the same. I don’t know why you do what you do. I don’t know what I expect to come from this. I suppose all I can do is say my piece.” On a count of four, she breathes in and then out, not to collect herself, but to ensure truth.

“I forgive you, John.”

It takes every ounce of willpower that John has to not make a run for it out of the building and into the open air. His head is suddenly pounding, it is far too hot in the cell, it’s making him dizzy. John clenches his fists into pallid shivering lumps and tries to quash the rising hysteria that is forcing its way up his throat.

Hero, sensing the discomfort quietly rises from the chair, and dutifully tucks it in, gaze lingering on John.

“You can write to me anytime. If you ever want to talk.” A jerk of a nod is his response. Just as she reaches the door his second and last comment stops her.

“It was nothing personal.”

Hero almost imperceptibly bows her head in soft understanding.

“I know.”

Then she is gone and one again John is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the longest things I've ever written. (Clearly, novels are not for me.)  
> I started this ages ago. Funnily enough, it began as a comedic piece, just the first chapter with Benedick being all like "hahaha we got u now m8" and Don John being like "whatever" and then Beatrice wailing on him.  
> Then it got more dramatic and I was like, what if Beatrice wasn't the punchline...she was angsty...what iF HERO CAME IN - WHAT IF HE STILL THOUGHT H ERO WA S DE A D?!  
> And it took me a while to power through it. This was challenging. It's hard to know where and how to start sometimes, especially with dialogue. But it's done and I'm proud of that!  
> Thought this should be in the last 3, if anywhere.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
